


better days

by raeldaza



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, the world is hard and painful and sucks but is also beautiful and full of happiness and good people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-08 17:09:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16433456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raeldaza/pseuds/raeldaza
Summary: Goodness can be found, even in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light.(the good worth fighting the dark for, told in fifteen parts.)





	better days

**Author's Note:**

> content warning: proceed at own risk, this one talks about a lot of the shit in the world - depression, homophobia, mass shootings, abuse, addiction, sexism, racism, etc. It's all fairly surface level and not explicit, but be aware.
> 
> anyway. I'm having a hard month. this helped a little.

It was 2AM, and Courfeyrac was still in bed.

While that may not normally seem odd, he hadn’t left the cocoon of blankets since he woke up at 6AM the day before.

His stomach had protested several times throughout the day, the claws of hunger pulling and roaring and distracting, but lethargy is a strangely strong combatant. He had ignored the hunger, and the thirst, and they both abated with time.

He turned his phone off after 11AM, when the barrages of texts asking where he was began to trickle in.

These days – these low days – had started about a year ago, coinciding with the anniversary of his brother’s death, and Courfeyrac had yet to learn how to manage them properly. He felt like an old, 18th century ship – strung and nailed together patchily with rotten wood, termites eating through his bones, and he managed to look alright and sit well atop the water, making his way across the wide ocean of life, but then sometimes there was a storm, and then it became glaringly obvious that he was not put together right, that his foundations weren't stable, that the water was going to trickle in while the storm blew him around, and he was going to start to sink, and there was no one around to contact, no one around to see, he was simply adrift on his own, while his frightened cries were drowned out by the rain and the wind and the waves.

He hated it, frankly.

He was supposed to the be the center of the group, the light, the force that kept everyone together. How was he supposed to be the energy that kept everyone afloat when he couldn’t even bring himself to go to the bathroom when he needed it? He was the one supposed to be there for others – and he was failing. You can’t ask for help when you’re the one others go to for help. How would they ever trust his advice again, if he couldn't take his own?

He buried his head into his pillow, feeling the weight of the blankets press him further into his burrow.

A noise out the window startled him.

About ten seconds later, it happened again.

He poked his head out of the blankets, slightly curious, mostly uninterested.

And there it was again.

It sounded like a cooing noise. Like a pigeon – but like a person, almost.

And there it was – god, he was never going to be able to sleep with that happening.

He sighed to himself, his eyes falling shut with the heavy weariness he couldn’t seem to blink away. With a tremendous amount of effort, he pushed off his blankets and sat up slightly, just so his shoulders could rest on the headboard, and looked outside the window.

He blinked, and looked closer.

There was a woman outside – maybe seventy, probably older – who was standing on a box, looking into their dumpster.

He felt a spike of intrigue, the first real emotion he’d felt in a full day, and pulled himself closer.

She made the cooing sound again, loud, and he noticed her arms were reaching into the dumpster.

The noise, again, and then she her arms contracted – she pulled up, something bundled in her hands. She snuggled it into her chest, and he saw what was burrowing into her shirt – a small bird, most likely a house sparrow by the markings.

She was mumbling to herself, rather loudly, and probably not on purpose given her hearing aids; the window was only on the second floor, and open, and he felt himself inching closer to hear.

“There you are dearie, nice and warm,” she said. “We’ll fix that broken wing right on up. Got me some worms for you too.”

She continued to stroke its head with a finger, the bird bundled into her chest.

Courfeyrac sat back, away from the window, and back onto his bed. He was staring out the window still, staring at the dumpster, unseeing, not even noticing the soft smile on his own face.

After a few moments, he turned on his phone.

* * *

“I understand that it was a borderline comment,” his boss said, and Bahorel felt something in him sink. “But you have to understand, Mr. Bordeaux has been with the company for thirty years. We can’t just fire him without cause.”

 _Racism isn’t cause?_ Bahorel wanted to ask, but he knew the answer. Maybe direct, overt racism is cause, if he had it recorded on video with a date and the guy’s face on screen, and then gave it to the media on a slow news day.

Microaggressions, even daily, even pushing into makes-the-whole-room-twitch, aren’t cause.

“Thanks for listening,” Bahorel replied, because he needed the job more than his pride if he was ever going to move on to better things.

He left the office, leaving the door open out of spite, and made his way down the hall. Halfway to his desk, he made a turn, and found his way into the empty supply closet.

He unlocked his phone and navigated to his contacts, pressing one he knew would answer.

“What happened?” Grantaire asked immediately after answering.

Bahorel let his head fall back onto the wall.

“What do you think happened.”

“Motherfuckers,” Grantaire responded, fire in each syllable, and Bahorel felt something in his spirit rise a little. “I’ll torch the whole building down.”

“Arson,” Bahorel pointed out.

“I’ll key their cars.”

“Vandalism.”

“Misdemeanor,” Grantaire said thoughtfully.

“Felony,” Bahorel corrected immediately.

“Source?”

“I’m a lawyer.”

“I forgot.”

“Wish I could,” Bahorel said, with far too little humor.

“You’ll out grow them,” Grantaire said, serious, unlike him. “You know you will.”

“I know,” Bahorel nodded to himself. He could feel the righteous helplessness start to fade, just a little. “Four more months, and then this is over.”

“Four months. You can do anything for four months.”

“I can do anything for four months,” Bahorel repeated. He thunked his head against the wall again and closed his eyes. “I can.”

“You can,” Grantaire repeated confidently. “By the way, did you know octopi penises break off into the females when mating?”

“Horrifying,” Bahorel replied, deadpan. “Please stop reading Wikipedia.”

“At least you’re not an octopus.”

“True.” 

“Feel better?” Grantaire asked.

“Yes,” Bahorel answered, truthfully. This fucking sucked – but it wasn’t permanent. It wasn’t his future, it was just his present, currently working its way into his past.

Grantaire – Grantaire was permanent.

“Come over tonight,” Grantaire offered. “I’ll have Chinese.”

“Thanks,” Bahorel said with a smile. “Really. Faith in humanity restored, a little.”

“I will key their cars, if you want, felony or not.”

Bahorel laughed.

“I mean it.”

Bahorel knew he did.

* * *

A very quiet rap on the door had Fantine lifting her head from her hospital pillow.

A head peeked in.

“Lillian,” Fantine greeted slowly, quietly. Weary. “Is something wrong?”

“No, not at all.” Her nurse smiled, and Fantine could feel herself smiling back, despite herself. “How was the session?”

Fantine tried to shrug.

“The doctor wants to stop the treatments.”

Lillian nodded, short little nods, eyes alight with sympathy. “I heard,” she said softly. “I’m so sorry.”

Fantine tried to shrug again, and felt her eyes close without her permission.

She wondered when that would happen for the last time.

She was only twenty-eight – this wasn’t _fair._

“I brought you something, but you can’t tell anyone,” Lillian said, and Fantine found herself opening her eyes, despite her exhaustion.

Lillian opened the door wide. The hall was bright – hospitals never go dark, like they do in movies. It always looks like the day.

She wheeled something into the room. Fantine squinted to see, and found her eyes widening in surprise when she realized what it was.

“I’m doing a favor for a friend and moving this guy up to the maternity ward for the night, but I thought you might want to say hi first.” Lillian wheeled him up to the bed. “You said you worked in a nursery before you got sick, right?”

Fantine nodded.

Lillian gently lifted the baby into her arms. He was sleeping – he was still red from birth, but clean. He had on a cute little blue onesie, and was wrapped in a blanket with giraffes. Lillian walked him closer, and leaned against the bed, so she could lean down and let Fantine see him.

“Hey, little guy,” Fantine whispered. “Welcome to the world.”

Lillian bounced him slightly, and they both smiled when his eyes fluttered, and he let out a little “uhh” noise.

Fantine brushed his hair back, little brown whisps, still so soft.

“You know what, little guy?” Fantine said to him. “You know what? You’re gonna grow up. And you’re gonna grow up so big, and so strong. And you’re gonna grow up kind. And you’re gonna love your momma, and poppa, and let them know it, and they are gonna love you. And you’re gonna have friends, and gonna love people someday. And you’re gonna find your passion, and you’re gonna bring things into the world that weren’t here before you.” She kissed his head slightly. “Just you wait.”

Lillian bounced him, once, twice, three times.

“Babies are something else, aren’t they?” Lillian said quietly, reverently. “They’re always like this. So innocent. So much potential.”

“So much future,” Fantine agreed.

“Say bye bye, Ryan,” Lillian said.

“Bye bye, Ryan,” Fantine bade him, making Lillian laugh. She placed him back in the rolling crib, and smiled at Fantine, bidding her adieu and telling her to get some rest.

Fantine looked out at the window, to where there was a full moon.

“The story doesn’t end with you,” she said to herself, thinking of Cosette.

She drifted asleep within minutes.

* * *

“Three months,” Grantaire said. “Three months, and somehow, it’s still harder now. Three months, I still wake up wanting it. Three months, I still _crave it_. It just – it _weighs_ on me, like a, like a—” He dropped his head into his hands. Fuck, his hair was greasy – when had he last had a shower? _Fuck,_ he probably smelled. “Like a truck, or an elephant, or what the _fuck_ ever. I just worry that it’ll never really be over.”

“You’re focusing on the negatives,” Jean-Paul said, after a long, quiet moment.

Grantaire lifted his head, and stared across the circle of fold-up chairs, of other recovering addicts. The florescent lights of the basement of the church flush everyone’s skin tone, leaving them looking pale, sickly. Fuck, maybe they just _are._

“Negatives?” Grantaire repeated. “I’m sorry, is there a laundry lists of _positives_ of wanting cocaine that I’m missing?”

He can’t fucking do this _._ He can’t fucking _do this._ He _can’t fucking do this. He—_

Jean-Paul shrugged. “What I’m hearing,” he said, interrupted Grantaire’s spiral in his own head. “Is that you’re three months sober.”

Grantaire stilled. Like a button was pressed, his eyes immediately filled with tears. He let his head fall back in his hands.

“From what I remember,” Jean-Paul continued, oblivious. “you hadn’t managed more than three days in a row for over fifteen years. That you used to consider a week something monumental. That you used to come here and argue with me _constantly_ that you were forced to be here and that there was nothing wrong with your addiction. And then, after a while, that morphed into you thinking you weren't worth the time, attention, or effort of saving.”

Grantaire shuddered a breath out. His would _not_ let the tears spill.

“What I’m hearing,” Jean-Paul said, leaning forward. “Is you thinking you’re worth saving. And you are trying to save yourself. And you have  _succeeded_ for _three_ _whole months._ ”

Grantaire’s hand was trembling on his leg.

Jean-Paul shook his head. “How is that not a positive?”

Maybe Grantaire could do this.  

* * *

“Can you turn the TV up higher?” Gavroche whispered to Eponine.

He was tucked into her side, her arm clasped around his shoulders, with their unraveling, fuzzy afghan spread over both their legs.

Eponine shook her head. “High as it goes, Gav. I’m sorry.”

“’S okay.”

Finding Nemo, especially at the scene where Marlin is quietly explaining to Dory why he’s giving up and going home, wasn’t enough to drown out the noise of their screaming parents above their heads.

“—if you had _worn a condom,”_ they heard their mother scream, and Eponine tugged Gavroche closer, tensing, wondering if Gavroche would let her get away with covering his ears, “we would have the _fucking money_!”

Something clunked against the floor of the upstairs bedroom, loud and heavy, most likely their mother's jewelry chest or the salt lamp.

“ _Bitch of a—”_

A heavy thud again, this one sounding more like a person against the wall, and Eponine found her head thumping in sympathy, despite her mother being the one to give that one to her more often than not.

“Hey,” she said, poking Gavroche in the arm. “Mrs. Fauchelevant?”

Gavroche nodded against her arm, eyes tightened and closed, and she stood, pulling him up. They quickly crossed the living room, avoiding the mess of hoarded shit, and made their way out, Eponine being careful to quietly close and lock the front door behind her.

They walked down the hallway, pace rapid, and reached the final door – 205 – and knocked quietly.

Gavroche had his arm around her middle, still, his face slightly pressed into her side, and she tried not to be obvious about how she clutched his head into her.

They heard steps, and Mrs. Fauchelevant opened the door.

“Dearies!” she greeted, a smile wide on her face. Eponine could feel her shoulders start to relax. “It’s wonderful to see you two. Do you want to come in?”

Gavroche nodded, but it was mostly into her side, so Eponine said “yes,” for both of them, and calmly walked into the flat.

It was an opposite of theirs, everything in the mirrored place, but it was hardly recognizably even as the same building. Her room was cleanly and homely, filled with old trinkets and grandmotherly like china and plants.

“Now Gavroche,” she said, bending down. He moved his head from Eponine’s side, letting her catch his eyes, and Eponine felt a wave of gratitude so strong she almost didn’t know what to do. “I believe I promised to teach you how to make chocolate chip cookies the next time you came over.”

He nodded, a small smile starting to break out on his face.

Mrs. Fauchelevant looked back up at Eponine, eyes too knowing, too world-weary. “And I’ll show you how to do that new stitch in knitting, how about that, my girl?”

“Sure,” Eponine said, trying not to cry. “Yeah. That would be nice.”

“Come in and stay,” Mrs. Fauchelevant said firmly.

The clock on the wall ticked, but there was no other noise as they both followed her into the kitchen.

* * *

As an emergency room nurse, Joly had to be good at calmness in crises, rationality during tragedy. And he was, he was, but –

His hands were shaking as he wrapped the gauze firmly around the child’s forearm. “It’s alright,” he said to her softly, the hitch distressingly obvious in his own voice. “It’s okay, it’s going to be okay.”

She was shuddering, her shoulders twitching uncontrollably, and his fingers started to tremble badly enough that he dropped the gauze on the floor.

He bent down to pick it up, a knee on the floor, and took a second to close his eyes, and take three purposeful, calming breaths. He opened his eyes, and could see the interplay of doctor, nurse, technician, and children’s shoes.

An elementary school.

An _elementary school._

His hand rose to his eyes without his permission, and he could feel his breath start to stutter, his eyes start to prick, and he couldn’t start sobbing next to a stretcher on a hospital tile floor splattered with blood, he _couldn’t,_ he was _trained_ for this, but there are screams echoing in his eardrums, and cries of grief and pain, and—

A hand settled on his shoulder, grasping it briefly, and then reached under his armpit, pulling him up. He let himself be pulled, legs stretching, and he idly catalogued the blood smeared on the knee of his scrubs.

“Joly.” It was Floreal, another ER nurse. Her hair was up in a fraying bun, her scrubs were settled oddly over her shoulders like they’ve been pulled – but her face was only kindness, only sympathy. “Joly. You’ve been here long enough. Take a break. There’s people on the second floor here for blood donations – go do that for a while.”

“I’m not supposed to—”

“Go,” she said softly, pushing his shoulder away, towards the door. “It’s okay.”

He nodded once, seriously and silently, and let out a heavy breath. He closed his eye for a moment, composed himself, and turned to walk out the door.

A hospital is never quiet, but the slowly dying shrieks of the ER echo in his ears for an entire floor.

He wasn’t even totally aware that his feet were taking him towards the blood donations until he pushed open the door to the waiting room.

It took him a moment to fully grasp what he was seeing.

Hundreds, _hundreds,_ of civilians. Mothers, fathers, grandmothers, teenagers, college students, those still in work uniform, those in suits.

In a hospital, crowds were usually associated with chaos – high emotions, panic, terror, fear. But the room was quiet – the younger children were all the ground, slowly playing with the waiting room toys. The people in chairs were somber, waiting. Those standing were mostly talking, but softly, in control. There was a group in the corner praying.

“It’s something, isn’t it?”

Joly turned. The receptionist, Patricia, smiled at him, tired and sober. “Once it hit the news, they all started piling in. We had to send some outside to wait until we get more nurses.”

Joly turned his head to look – and outside the door, waiting in the cold, grey, windy November day, silently, were probably another fifty to a hundred people.

“Are you here to help, Nurse?” Patricia asked.

His eyes scanned the room, at the hundreds of waiting heads, waiting arms, and let out a breath, and felt that tight, winding feeling in his chest unfurl slightly.

“Yeah, Patricia,” he said, nodding. Panicked adrenaline was replaced with firm resolve. “Yeah.”

* * *

_New low,_ Bossuet thought. _Crying in a closet, on a mop bucket._

He hiccupped, gross and uncontrolled, and immediately thought, _this is why she cheated on you, you idiot._

He groaned to himself, trying not to beat his skull with his hands.

Why wasn’t he enough? What about him drove her to leave him, to willingly choose to lie, to download the app, to find a guy, to go to his bed? Why was this the outcome of _another_ failed relationship? Why wasn’t he good enough to fulfill anyone?

Every _I love you_ echoed in his goddamn head, like a foghorn in his ear, swirling memories and tainted happiness through his eyes.

“Hey dude.” Bossuet jumped. “I’m sorry, but I gotta get to the mop.”

Bossuet quickly wiped his eyes, and looked up.

Oh damn, it was the janitor. He hadn't even heard the door open.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine.” He paused, clearly taking in Bossuet’s state. “Rough day?”

“Dumped,” Bossuet clarified, standing. God, the bottom of his jeans were covered in water. 

The guy nodded sagely. “Been there, bro.”

Bossuet was not much of a ‘bro’ guy, but he smiled back anyway, if only to press pause on the tide of grief threatening to waterfall onto him.

The janitor reached into his pocket and pulled out a Snickers. He handed it to Bossuet, who took it, bemused.

“You’re better off,” the janitor said. “Imagine if you had dated longer, and fell more in love.”

“I guess so,” Bossuet agreed sadly, looking down at the Snickers.

“If she makes you cry in a closet, she’s not worth it.” The guy grabbed the mop, and pulled the bucket towards himself.

“I guess so,” Bossuet repeated, laughing a little despite himself.

“Enjoy the candy,” the janitor said, and left.

Bossuet looked down at it, and smiled.

* * *

Eleven volunteer hours, fourteen bodies, twenty-eight hands, four miles of street, and over 29 trash bags full of garbage – and Jehan was starting to feel himself lose it, just a little.

“Felix,” Jehan asked, tapping the shoulder of the most senior volunteer from the agency. “Would you mind taking these to the dumpster and recycler today? I need to leave.”

“Of course,” Felix shrugged. “Take off if you need to.”

Jehan nodded once, shortly, and spun on his heel, no particular direction in mind.

He jerked open the door of his car, and piled himself in, mind reeling.

So much trash. Bottles, cans, plastic, paper, bags, food containers, even needles. So much unnecessary filth polluting their home, their city – and why? Trash cans were too inconvenient? And they spent the entire vacation day cleaning up the litter – and for what? It’s not like it would stop climate change. It’s not like it would slow climate change. It’s not like it wouldn’t be filled with trash in another week. It’s not like it would stop people from throwing their shit everywhere. It’s not like they changed any minds. It’s not like they did any long-lasting good for the Earth. The sidewalk was still cracked, the road still needed to be repaired, the grass was still uprooted, there was _one_ fucking tree in the entire seven-mile radius –

Jehan dug his nails into the steering wheel.

Without thinking, he found himself pulling up to the beach.

It was November, and on top of that, it was a grey, cloudy day. The sun wasn’t even poking through the clouds, the threat of rain was ever imminent.

The beach wasn’t even that busy on normal days, since calling it a _beach_ was a bit of an overstatement. It was more of a strip of sand and then the crashing waves over perilous rocks.

He parked his car a little over the line, and shut off the engine. He stepped outside and immediately felt the coolness of the breeze, the wind slightly pinking his cheeks already, fresh and unpolluted air filling his lungs.

He let out a breath.

He locked the car and made his way to rolling, grey sea.

He flipped off his shoes with little trouble, and proceeded barefoot onto the grass that led him downwards. It pricked at his feet, scratched them slightly, and he could feel the Earth squish under his feet, the dirt giving under his weight.

He sat down.

The sea was loud and crashing, waves beating rhythmically on the rocks underneath. A flock of birds contributed to the natural soundtrack, bleating above his head, flying in formation. An ant crawled over his hand, and he watched it – the little legs leading it over the mountain of his pinky, his palm, his wrist. The cold bit into his skin, almost frosting, but awakening.

He suddenly remembered a poem he had once read in university – _Timeless sea breezes, that for aeons have blown ancient rocks, you are the purest space coming from afar._

“Timeless,” Jehan repeated to himself. He nodded to himself, and closed his eyes, letting his other senses take hold.

Minutes later, he opened his eyes.

The sea was still there, waves still crashing, sand still grating, grass still poking, ant still crawling.

“Okay, then,” he said to himself. “Okay.” 

* * *

There was someone following her.

And _fuck,_ her stupid goddamn iPhone 5, old piece of shit, was out of battery. It had been at 51% five minutes ago, what the hell.

She shouldn’t have walked to the grocery store alone at 11pm. She knew that, logically. But it was only a five minute walk, and all she wanted was a bag of donuts, why was the world _like this,_ and Jesus, he was at least two feet closer, now, and he had _definitely_ loitered outside the store waiting for her _—_

“Jennifer!”

Musichetta blinked, utterly taken aback, as three college-aged girls waved from across the street. She stopped in place, waiting, and they crossed, running up to her. One of them, the brunette, came up close, and pulled her in for a hug.

Musichetta tentatively hugged back, unsure how to tell the girls there was clearly a mistake, when she heard a whisper in her ear.

“There’s a guy following you, play along. We’ll walk you to your apartment.”

Musichetta hugged back hard, just for a second, and pulled back. She hoped her eyes could convey her gratitude.

“Maria, it’s great to see you.”

They linked arms, and Musichetta pulled them along, heading home, reveling in the sense of safety that came from the simple act.

* * *

The 8th of December never got easier for Cosette.

She wasn’t there for her mother’s final moments, something she’ll never forgive herself for, no matter how long she manages to live.

This year, she was a year older than her mother ever got to be.

Her head was in Marius’s lap, who was calmly petting her hair, like a sweetheart, but it didn’t alleviate the never ending, pressing grief.

Her mother died, and everything was worse. There was a greyness that descended when her mother's spirit left, a heaviness that would never alleviate. Every happy moment was now tinged with the sorrow that she would never be able to tell her mom, she would never again be able to call her up and get her reaction. There were so many possibilities that life brings, and death closes every door – her relationship with her mother is now set in stone, a gravestone, unchangeable, marked into history forever, no longer something that can grow and change and live and breathe. It was heartbreaking, on good days, and December 8th was never a good day.

Her mother was gone, and everything was worse. And that would never change.

The song switched on her phone, and Bach started to swell in her ears.

She closed her eyes and let the music swell, filling her every crevice, fill her head, knock out her thoughts, fill her soul, fill her emotions, take her over.

These notes – these human notes, these wavelengths of sound made from instruments, made from people who spent their life practicing the beauty of sound – they, somehow, made everything just slightly - less. Like the world was just, maybe, manageable. Maybe everything wasn’t grey and dull and lifeless. Maybe there was something that could still make her smile.

The minor fell and the major lift, and she felt a calm descend.

* * *

“I’m sorry, Feuilly,” she said, and he closed his eyes. “We’re too busy right now. Maybe in an hour.”

His feet ached. He could feel a blister starting to form on his right heel, and the ball of his left foot felt like someone had placed a rock under it. His shins were starting to feel like they were splinting, which he fully didn’t need, and his left knee was starting to give under the weight of ten hours of standing on it. It had been weakened with his fall last year, it couldn’t take the strain.

He plastered a smile on his face. “Of course, ma’am.”

He walked out the main floor again and resisted the urge to groan at the group of teenagers that had just walked in.

“Feuilly.” He felt someone tap on his shoulder, and turned. “Hey man, she let you go on your break?”

He shook his head.

Jacques snapped his gum, once, twice, but his eyes twisted with sympathy. “That blows dude.”

“Yeah,” Feuilly agreed, tired, his knee protesting. He shifted his weight.

“You should quit. Throw a fucking ruckus, push over shelves, all that.”

“Be fun,” Feuilly said, not bothering to muster a moment of enthusiasm. “But I need this job.”

Jacques’s eyes roamed over him. He was a bit annoying, and an intensely slow and lethargic worker, which irked Feuilly, but he was not, at his core, a bad guy.

Jacques gave him a sudden grin.

“Hey. Dude. I’ll fake a call to the manager, have her go deal with something at the branch across town. I’ll hold down the store, and you can take a half hour nap in the back.”

Feuilly reeled back in surprise.

“What?”

“You need it dude,” Jacques said, snapping his gum.

“Well, yeah, but—”

“Go,” he said. “Let me think of a fun crisis someone can get into in a shoe store.”

“Thank you,” Feuilly said, slightly bewildered, but entirely warmed.

God, he needed it.

“Go,” Jacques repeated.

Feuilly smiled, relief overwhelming his pain, if only for a moment.

* * *

“Fucking fag.”

Combeferre knew it was coming – would have bet on it, if given the time – but he still managed to fall to his knees when the push to his back came.

The cement sidewalk was hard on his kneecaps, and he was sure it would bruise in time, which was unfortunate, because he had finished washing all his jeans with holes in the knees just that morning.

He stayed on his knees a moment, knowing it made it more likely for the situation to dissolve without violence – and he was right, because he could hear the rancorous laughter of the group of drunk, 20-something men from further away.

After gathering his courage, he looked behind him – and sure enough, they were far enough to be about to turn the corner.

He waited until they were fully out of sight before pulling his feet under him, hands splaying on the cold cement, and then pushed himself to his feet.

His knees were dirty, and one was bleeding slightly, but other than that, he was unharmed. They luckily apparently weren’t the type of kick someone when he was down – literally, at least.

Combeferre dusted himself off slightly, and then brushed a hand through his hair, cringing slightly when it caught on his curls.

He had dealt with this enough that it wasn’t new, wasn’t even fully unexpected in this area, but it never failed to make him feel like all his life choices were a mistake. Moving out. Coming out. Getting a place in the cheaper area, rather than the gay district. Attempting grindr, despite his massive reservations. Kissing at the bar. The earring that still, somehow, gave him away. The stripe of rainbow in his hair that Courfeyrac talked him into that he, in the mirror, kind of liked. His childhood decision to never respond to aggression, no matter how hard he was pushed down.

He put his hands in his pockets and started back home, feeling his heart grow heavier and more somber with every step.

He had made it a street over, and was waiting for the crosswalk symbol, when he felt a tug at his jacket. With a spike of trepidation, he turned.

He stared into empty air, the only other person being a middle aged woman, too far to the right to have touched him.

A tug.

He looked down.

It was a child – probably six, maybe a little older.

“Mister?” the boy asked. “Mister?”

Combeferre looked back over at what was obviously the mother, who gave him an encouraging smile.

Combeferre crouched down, now eye level with bright, large, childish blue eyes.

“What can I do for you?”

“Can I tell you a secret?”

Combeferre looked seriously at him, then nodded. “Of course.”

The kid leaned in, and Combeferre found himself mimicking him.

“I like your hair,” the kid whispered.

Combeferre laughed in surprise, a short breath, and then looked back up at the mother, who was smiling down at them. He looked back down at the kid, who was grinning.

“Do you want to touch it?” Combeferre asked.

The kid’s eyes grew. “Yes!”

Combeferre leaned in, and he felt small hands trace back and forth over the colored rainbow.

“Does it grow like that when you get older?” he asked, his hands still smoothing over the shaved section.

“Actually, I had a really talented hairdresser friend of mine do it for me. He’s pretty talented, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Ben,” the mother called, and the kid snapped his head back. “Say thank you, and then we should go.”

“Thank you, mister,” the kid said seriously. “Your hair is cooler than Transformers.”

“I don’t know about that,” Combeferre laughed, feeling something in his heart bounce. “But thank you.”

“You made his day,” the mom said, smiling at him. She takes her child’s hand. “Come along, Ben.”

They started to cross the street, the opposite direction that Combeferre was going.

“Cooooolerrrrr than transformerrrssssss,” the kids screeched, looking back the whole way across the street.

Combeferre spent the whole day thinking about that interaction.

* * *

“I’m so sorry,” Marius said. He could feel tears pricking at his eyes. “Could you maybe try typing in the number?”

The cashier looked at him with pity – they both knew if it was declined three times, twice with the customer machine and once with the cash register, it wasn’t the card reader – but nodded.

She slowly typed in the numbers, careful and precise, and the screen dinged once more – DECLINED.

“Oh God, I am so sorry,” Marius apologized again. He looked over at the bagging area. Milk. Eggs. Bread. A bag of apples.

He had so wanted to try to make Cosette an apple strudel he had seen online. It was her birthday this week, and he couldn’t afford to even take her out to dinner, let alone get a gift she deserved. But that – that he had wanted to give her. If only that.

And he couldn’t even –

He pressed a hand to his forehead.

“Could you try it without the apples?” he asked.

The cashier nodded.

She tapped the screen a few times, and ran it again, and –

DECLINED.

God, how was he going _eat_ this week—

“Excuse me,” Marius heard. He turned – it was the next man in line.

Marius braced himself, ready for a berating at holding up the line, long as it was in the evening, ready to be told to fuck off if he didn’t have the money, ready to hold back tears as he would have to ask for them to wait even _longer_ as he ran to his car to look for coins in the cupholder—

“Just put his stuff on my tab. Apples included.”

Marius blinked, uncomprehending.

“Of course,” the cashier agreed immediately.

“What?” Marius asked. “What do you mean? You don’t have to do that.”

“Nah,” the man shrugged. “But why not?”

Marius didn’t have an answer, but he did feel such a rush of relief, of gratitude, of hope, that he reached forward and pulled the man into a swift hug. The guy laughed, and patted him on the back, like this was silly, like this was _nothing,_ like Marius wouldn’t have to skip breakfast tomorrow morning now.

“Thank you,” he said, pulling back, meaning every word.

“Anytime,” the man answered, shrugging.

Marius gathered his bags, already thinking about how Cosette’s eyes would light up when she saw the strudel.

* * *

This was one of the days where he couldn’t forget, no matter how hard he tried to redirect his attention.

He left the patio, unwilling to let Cosette, his innocent, naïve daughter, notice there was something wrong – he had to be strong, he had to be enough for her. PTSD over prison conditions wasn’t exactly something he wanted to – or could – explain.

The night was cool and dark, but quiet and empty, and he felt some of the tension seep from his shoulders.

The attack from this morning still was present in his mind, like a stalker in the night, and he didn’t know what to do to make them stop – if he could. Maybe this was his life, now – waking in cold terrors of memories of a brutality and pain that he had long since put in his past.

Something brushed against his leg.

“Ah, cat,” he said. He bent down and picked her up, to a slight meow, and placed her in the crook of his arm.

“Mer,” she purred softly.

“Hi,” he greeted.

With the hand not currently supporting her, he began to pet her soft head. She began purring loudly, pushing her little white head into his hand, and he laughed slightly at her enthusiasm, scratching her chin with renewed vigor.

She batted her head into his chest, and he could feel his heart swell slightly.

“Now now,” he murmured. “I got you.”

He pet her again, rhythmically, reveling in the softness of her fur, the joy of being a joy to someone, even a cat.

He didn’t even realize he had stopped thinking about it until Cosette burst onto the patio, demanding a late-night snack.

* * *

“Is the wet, cold grass in your backyard in October somehow preferable to your warm living room with all your friends?” Combeferre asked, settling down next to Enjolras.

“No,” Enjolras said, and didn’t try to hide the tears rolling down his face.

Because it was Combeferre, who knew how to handle this, he simply pressed his arm against Enjolras, giving him support and comfort, silent.

Enjolras let a minute pass by, and Combeferre didn’t ask.

He didn’t even really know how to explain.

“Have you ever read _Roll of Thunder, Hear my Cry?”_ Enjolras asked, wanting to be understood, despite himself.

Combeferre tossed him a slightly odd look. “No.”

“It’s a depressing book about racism. Anyway, at the end, there’s this young black boy who is about to be lynched. And the last lines are – ‘I cried for TJ. For TJ and the land.” Enjolras puts his hand to his eyes once more, closing them. He took a shuddering, steadying breath, and motioned towards his tears. “For the people and the land.”

Enjolras felt an arm slip around his shoulder. Combeferre’s palm landed on his shoulder, and he slowly pulled Enjolras into his side, tucking his body into his, and Enjolras’s head fell onto his shoulder.

Enjolras buried his eyes in the fabric of Combeferre’s shirt, something old, something musty.

“They call it senseless acts of tragedy,” Enjolras mumbled into his shirt. “But it’s not. It never is. It’s always purposeful acts of tragedy. People choose to shoot up synagogues. People choose to prioritize money over the climate. People choose to spit racist vulgarities at people on planes. It never stops.”

“I knew we shouldn’t have had the news on in there,” Combeferre mused. “It’s too depressing.”

“It’s this whole year,” Enjolras said, feeling his tears seep into Combeferre’s shirt. “The past few years, really. Hate and fear seem louder.”

The hand squeezed his shoulder.

He could feel Combeferre breathe. He raised his hand, and pointed to the noise and love and happiness bursting from the house behind them. “Let that be louder.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“No, it's not,” Combeferre conceded. A pause. “But also, it is.”

  


End file.
